Come to think of it, I’d say I could tell something was off. A bit like when you get the feeling a bug’s buzzing by your ear, maybe. You swat at it, but it turns out it’s an alarm, the alarm in your head, quiet as can be. It won’t make you jump, there’s just enough to keep you from a good night’s sleep, though.
So I didn’t sleep much and I bolted awake. Did I have a feeling right then, or was it only the draft coming in from below? I couldn’t guess. I was so tired after those days checking the traps, stowing equipment, and getting ready before the bad weather comes.
I’ve always been fond of storms—right before them, especially, when you’ve got to gear up for everything, seal all the gaps, haul in enough wood to last a few days, and hunker down as best as you can. And then, once the storm’s come, I just curl up with the CB radio sputtering, a hot mug of coffee to warm my hands, and a fire kicking up a fuss, what with the snow and the wind coming down the chimney.
I hear the house groaning and shifting like an old man. Sometimes I get it in my head it’s talking to me, the way it likely talked to my old folks and their own old folks before them, generations and generations all the way back to the very first Mayer who put down roots here, on land no tree could grow on, to prove that he knew something nature didn’t.
The house’s still standing and I’m nice and warm inside, like a diamond in a box. Problem is, I’m all alone.
When I came downstairs, the door was wide-open and the snow was already blowing in by the shovelful. I couldn’t believe my eyes. I yelled out for Bess, asked her why she didn’t shut the damn door, shouted that we’d all be dead of cold no thanks to her, but I got no answer. And then I saw the little boy’s boots weren’t there and that their jackets weren’t hanging on the rack.
Then I knew she’d gone out with him, never mind that even a girl as different as her ought to know that you never go outside when the blizzard’s at its worst.